


Tell Me Something Nobody Knows

by Anaross



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 02:01:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3433619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaross/pseuds/Anaross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike came back from the Hellmouth fire just a little transformed but still vampish. Buffy is being soulmatey with Angel. Faith... well, Faith wants to bum another cigarette. </p><p>AU after S7 Buffy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me Something Nobody Knows

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, someone asked for this.  It works as a one-shot — it's an old WIP that I've never returned to, but maybe I will. SPAITH, I must warn you.

When he came offstage, his bass in hand, she was sitting at the bar, looking sultry at him, her hair tousled, her mouth done in blood-red — probably chose the color just for him. Her eyes were dark and hot and he thought maybe he wanted her. But he hadn't had a woman since he was reborn, came back, transformed, whatever the hell it was he did, and he'd kind of forgotten what it was like. And he'd been practicing the Zen thing, or as much as he could without knowing the first thing about Zen — practicing not wanting, not expecting, not doing anything but being.

He must not have mastered it, because he walked over to her without meaning to, drawn to her, drawn to her, drawn to her.

"Slayer," he said.

"Shouldn't call me that."

"Why not?" He took a seat beside her, nodded towards Dave, and Dave, the perfect bartender, fusslessly brought over a double shot of Jim Beam and another beer for the lady.

"I'm a slayer, all right, but not your slayer."

"They givin' out individual slayers for vamps these days?" He took his time swallowing the JB. She was watching him hard. She was a hard girl, he thought, in the places she wasn't soft. "Personalized service?"

"Don't be dense, Spike." She turned away from him, presenting him with her slim, muscular shoulder, almost bare in a little tank top. He would have nibbled at it, if he was sure his teeth would still regenerate.

"Can't help it. So. Come to hear the band?"

"Come to hear you. They should let you be the lead singer. Better voice, and way better looking."

He shook his head. "This way, babe, all the intellectual girls will like me, see. Think they're discerning and thoughtful and deep, going after the bass player instead of the obvious choice."

She grinned at him. "You thought that through, did you?"

"Nah. Just filling in. The regular bass player's in rehab."

Suddenly she reached out her hand and touched his wrist. He felt a shock, just for an instant, and saw her bite her lip. She whispered, "Good to see you again. Alive. All that."

The last time they'd touched, they were trying to kill each other. Well, not really — just a shoving match, more or less, bruising and angry. He was defending Buffy, not that Buffy had asked him to, and Faith was cementing her leadership position, such as it was. No one won the fight. No one lost. Typical of him and slayers, in this century, at least. (Last century, well, one statistic sufficed: Spike 2, Slayers 0.)

"Thanks. Good to be back."

He'd had this sort of re-encounter a half-dozen times the last couple months. Usually awkward. There was nothing in the etiquette books, no greeting cards, for welcoming the resurrected back to the world. The best was with Dawn — she was so herself, he became himself with her, just like that. The worst was with --

"So. Seen Buffy?"

"Sure. Wasted a few demons with her the other night."

"Just like old times?"

"More or less. Good fight."

Faith had amazing hair — thick with waves, grained like fine oak. He imagined closing his mouth on a handful of it.

She must have seen something in his eyes, because she shoved her hands into her hair and started braiding it. It was one of those things girls did when they were nervous, enchantingly female, and she ended up with a rope as thick as her wrist and nothing to tie it off with. So she ran her fingers through the plait to undo it, shook her head, let it settle back into waves. "You still with her?"

"Was I ever?"

"What do you mean?"

He shrugged. Fell back on the excuse. "My memory isn't what it was. Lost a lot of the past."

She regarded him with narrow eyes. "You remember me, don't you?"

He smiled. "Yeah. Mix tape. Everyone but me cleared out when you blasted it. Metallica. Anthrax. Played that Rob Zombie song about Dracula because you thought it annoyed me. Great tune, though. Drac's an old buddy, you know. Nothin' much against him, 'cept he owes me money."

"You remember Dracula." She held up a thumb. The polish was girly lilac. Very not Faith. Held up her index finger. "You remember my mix tape." Held up the middle finger. "You remember me. But you don't remember if you ever had a relationship with Buffy?"

"Callin' my bluff, are you, babe? I remember a relationship. Of sorts. Don't remember that I was ever with her in a meaningful sense. Maybe you remember otherwise."

"I remember definite _hands-off-my-vampire_ vibes. And I remember definite _don't-touch-me-I'm-taken_ vibes."

"Feelin' those vibes now?" He tilted his head and raised the scarred eyebrow.

Still worked. She drew in a sharp breath, and didn't look away.

"No."

"Buffy's with Peaches now.  Right?"

Now Faith looked down. Embarrassed. "Whatever that means," she muttered.

"Means not with me, is what it means. Drink up your beer, love, and let's get out of here."

 

 

He took her hand as they walked down the dark street. No need to be protective with a slayer, but it kept her close, kept him close. Not too close. Not arm around the waist close. Just close enough that both of them knew there was more in store for the night.

She expected him to make a move. Of course. That was Faith. Sex was a form of small talk for her, or so Buffy had remarked. Spike rather admired that, but it wasn't for him. He'd never been any good at casual sex. Harmony was supposed to be just casual sex, and he ended up living with her and calling her pet names and trying to stake her — he couldn't even use and discard the queen of the ditzes. Hell, he'd gotten attached to the Buffybot even, for awhile there, and she was made of silicon and circuits. (So were half the girls in LA, but none were quite as charming.)

He supposed he'd have to learn to do it, do casual sex, now that he was as detached as he was ever likely to be. But not with Faith. He already sort of liked her, and that, plus a few stolen hours, would be all he needed to start up another obsession.

_All I need is another slayer._

But it was pleasant, strolling through the cool night, smelling the ocean, talking low and gentle about nothing much.

Then she had to push the issue. "So, Spike, you going to show me a little action?"

This made him smile. "Sure, babe. I'll take you for a ride."

And then he made her run along the empty streets — no one in LA walked the sidewalks, much less ran — like they were chasing demons, and they pulled up a mile later, laughing, out of breath, in front of a parking garage. "Come with me," he whispered, leading her through the entrance into the greater darkness beyond.

Their footsteps echoed on the concrete floor, off the concrete walls. "You're really romantic, aren't you?" she said ironically, but he could sense the excitement glowing from her.

"Not romantic. Not me. Just looking for a spot of fun."

And he led her to the old black convertible parked in majestic isolation, the only car in the entire row. "Recognize this?"

In the dimness, only vampire vision let him see the consternation on her face. "It's Angel's, right? But — but what are you going to do with it?"

He was already sliding a hand between the canvas top and the doorframe, slipping it down to flip up the door lock. "Hotwire it. Told you I'd take you for a ride."

She stared at him for a moment, then started laughing. "Spike, you are — I thought you had a soul now."

"Sure. But still a felon at heart, love."

It was the work of a moment to hotwire the antique. As he put down the top, Faith laughed and vaulted into the passenger seat, and they were off into the night.

He took her down the coast road past Huntington Beach, parking up close to the sand. They pulled off their shoes, tossed them into the back seat, and ran down to the water. The tide was coming in, and the waves were big enough to knock them down a couple times. Faith kept tugging at her short skirt, like she wanted to take it off, but he ignored her tacit invitation to skinny dip. He liked the way the salt water and sand on his jeans weighed him down, anchored him to the earth. He felt more substantial than he had since — since forever, since this forever started months ago. And when Faith was hit by a big wave and fell against him, she felt more substantial too. He was used to Buffy's deceptively fragile body, but Faith was solid. He almost gave into it, almost pulled her close. But he just righted her on her feet and stepped back.

There was an open shower in the parking lot, and he sprayed off, head to foot, and Faith came up, waiting her turn with a baffled expression on her exotic face. They traded places, and he watched as the fresh water plastered her blouse against her bare breasts, the nipples standing out big as bing cherries. Desire stirred again in him. But she gave him that saucy look, and he turned away, pulling himself up on the hood of the car. It was still warm from their drive, and felt good against his wet skin.

Once again she joined him, propping her bare feet next to his on the bumper. He sensed she was enjoying the novelty of following a man's lead. Too bad for her that he hadn't a clue where they were going.

She wiggled beside him, reaching into her back pocket and pulling out a wide-toothed black comb. He tilted his head to watch as she worked it through her wet hair, one section at a time, worrying it past every knot. When she was done, her hair was smooth and slick down her back.

She handed him the comb, a bit of innocent intimacy that touched him, and he obliged, yanking it through his tangled curls. When he gave it back, she slipped it into her pocket, and then they sat there, staring out at the moonlight on the water in a companionable silence. Finally, her hand stole over and took his. "You're cold again," she whispered, as if someone might overhear and know the truth about him.

"So are you. The Pacific's as cold as the English Channel, I think."

"We're not going to end up in bed tonight, are we."

"Night's almost gone, love."

"Or tomorrow night."

"No."

"Why not?"

He considered this. "Not much for one-night stands."

"You haven't had one with me yet."

"Wouldn't be a one-night stand between us." He ran his thumb across her palm. "You know that, don't you?"

She wouldn't look at him. "Could be. If we both wanted it to be."

"But both of us don't."

"I might."

"I don't."

"You don't want it, or you want more?"

He tugged her hand up, her wrist against his mouth. The pulse beat steady on his lower lip. He could smell the blood just beneath the skin — rich slayer blood. He was changing. He didn't need to bite. He could just breathe it in and know her inside him. Still he put out his tongue and licked the pulse point, tasting the trace of salt and the sweet warm essence of her skin.

She gasped, and he smiled, putting her hand chastely back into her lap. "More, I reckon."

He'd angered her. She pulled away, turning that hard/soft shoulder to him. But after a moment he heard her sigh. "You're the only man who is too wicked for me, you know that?"

He laughed. "Me? Wicked? Hey, haven't you heard? I was redeemed. Came back with a full bill of approval. Certificate of holy sanction."

"That's not what I heard. I heard you were so bad, they were afraid you'd corrupt the saints. So they threw you back."

"No way. I'm a saint myself. Got my own feast day and everything. Pretty soon, people are going to start praying to me. Attributing miracles to me."

"You're just as bad as ever, and you know it."

"Not."

"You stole Angel's car."

"I'm taking it back any minute now." He matched action to intent, rising to stand on the hood and walking up it, stepping over the windshield into the driver's seat.

"All sandy with the seats wet from our clothes." She rose too, standing up on the hood, but she did a flip dismount onto the sand before getting in the car. She always had to get fancy, he remembered from the few times he'd seen her fight.

"How else will he know he's been violated?"

She considered this for a moment, then, as he watched, stunned, she reached a hand up her skirt and, wiggling, pulled her panties down her bare legs and over her feet. Then she held up the scrap of silk and lace — ruined anyway by the saltwater — and slid it down over the gear shift between them.

Something burst in his chest, something warm. Joy. Pleasure. Desire.

"He'll know it's yours." He couldn't help it. He reached out and stroked the red silk, rubbed it between his finger and thumb. "He'll smell you."

This gave her a moment's pause. But then she turned to him with a slow smile. "How else will he know who your partner in crime is?"

"I thought you liked him."

"I do. He needs a bit of fun."

"Our idea of fun, babe, isn't likely to be his."

"Poor him."

They were in such total accord that he let her choose the radio station on the way back, and she chose one he liked well enough — heavy metal and hard at it, and they sang as loud as they could along with the music, their voices snatched away by the wind. It was really too cold to have the top down, especially when they were wet, but the freedom made the chill worthwhile. And anyway, Faith had to hold her hair back with her hand, and every time he glanced over, he could see another tendril slipping out of the bond and cracking back like a whip.

When they parked in the garage slot just beside the original one, dawn was just breaking — he still felt that shiver of dread and anticipation even now that sunrise wasn't lethal. Or maybe it was the girl who was lethal, the one who vaulted out of the car, her little skirt riding up and giving him one instant's tantalizing glimpse of a shadow between her legs. He took one last moment to touch the red silk panties, hung there on the knob of the gearshift, and then reached back to get their shoes from the back.

"I'll walk you back to your car."

"Don't have to."

"Sure I do."

They held hands again on the walk back to the deserted club. Friends. That's what they felt like, right this moment. Friends. He'd never been friends with a woman he wanted this bad. It felt amazingly good.

"Faith," he said as they reached her car.

She was fumbling for her keys, but looked up. "Yeah, Spike?"

"Tell me something no one knows."

"About me?" Something crossed her face in the dim dawn light. Fear. Then a smile. "There's so much no one knows. Lots of secrets."

"Just one."

"My middle name is Hope. Isn't that stupid? Faith Hope O'Brien."

"Cheating. Your mother knows your middle name."

Faith shrugged. "She's probably dead. And if she's alive, she won't remember. Probably doesn't even remember my first name at this point."

He started to speak, but then, for once, couldn't think of anything to say.

But she stopped with the key stuck halfway into her car lock. "Your turn. Tell me something no one knows."

He should have expected it, should have had something prepared. Instead he sorted through two lifetimes of secrets known only to those who were already dead. None were suitable for a girl, even a slayer. He thought about the present, came up with something suitably embarrassing. "I've never been on a roller coaster. Too scary."

It made her laugh, and that's what he wanted. Then she got in the car, rolling down the window to reach out and squeeze his forearm. "Need a ride home?"

"Nah. Just live over there. Kiss instead."

And he bent down into the open window and let her do the choosing, and she chose right, that is, the way he didn't expect, a sweet kiss on his cheek, her hand lingering for a moment on the side of his neck. "Night, Spike."

"Night, Faith Hope O'Brien."

 

 

Angel called at 8 am, his imperious voice echoing through the answering machine. "Pick up, Spike, if you know what's good for you."

Spike groaned and sat up in bed, rubbing at the sand grains stuck to his face. He took his time reaching out for the bedside phone, blinking a bit in the weak light that filtered through the blinds. "Yeah?"

Strange that he was the one who could take the sunlight now, and yet he still kept vamp hours. Angel went to great lengths to manipulate his environment so he could share the daytime world with the humans. Neither one or t'other. Either one or t'other. Binary opposites, but both blasted obstinate to do what they weren't supposed to do.

"What did you do with my car, you son of a bitch?"

Spike smiled. This was worth getting up early for. "Your car? Don't know what you mean, mate."

"The car that is in the wrong parking place. The car that has 73 more miles on it today than yesterday."

"You know, you're way worse off than I ever imagined. You keep track of your mileage?"

"The car with four heavy metal radio stations and three hiphop stations, turned up full-blast."

"Hey! Didn't know you liked metal, Peaches. Figured you more for the Mantovani type."

"The car that footsteps on the hood. And sand on the seats. And on the floor."

"Hmm. I'm not one of those fancy private investigators, but I'd hazard a guess that car has been the beach."

"The car you stole."

Spike shook his head. "Didn't steal it, did I. Brought it right back. Almost exactly to the place you left it. More like an unauthorized borrow."

"You used up eight gallons of gas."

"Those old muscle cars sure aren't much for the fuel efficiency, are they? Ever think of getting a nice Toyota?"

"And furthermore, who left those — the--"

Spike waited, wondering if his grandsire would actually get the word "panties" out. Or "knickers." Idly, he bet himself ten quid that it would be "underwear".

"The lingerie?"

I lose, Spike thought, adding it to his account. "You can't tell?" Faith was going to be way disappointed.

"Saltwater drowns out other scents. Not that I--" he drew in a distasteful breath, "got close enough to smell."

Oh, right. A vampire could sniff out what the stolen-watch salesman on the corner had for breakfast. He'd probably shut down his nose so that he wouldn't be corrupted.

"Pretty little scrap, isn't it?"

"Whose is it?"

"Mine."

This actually surprised a laugh out of Angel, probably the first in a decade. It was cut off as soon as it started. "Even skinny as you are, boy, I don't think you'd be able to squeeze into this."

"Bring it over and I'll try it on. Sort of like Cinderella and the slipper, you know?"

"Whose is it?" All the laughter was gone now. Angel was deadly serious.

Somewhere within Spike was an old-fashioned gentleman who didn't kiss and tell. Even if the lady in question was new-fangled enough not to care. "Just a girl, Angel. None of your affair."

"It is if you had her in my car."

Oho. "I didn't have her in your car, and you know it. Christ. Just drove her to the beach. We swam. Fully clothed — s'why your upholstery's all wet, probably. Drove back. That's all."

"Whose is it?"

Then Spike realized what this was about. "It's not Buffy's."

Wouldn't you recognize it? he was about to add. When he and Buffy were together, he was intimately acquainted with every item of lingerie she owned — once she even did him a little fashion show. But Angel--

Angel, he supposed, didn't get many glimpses of Buffy's inner wardrobe. Or any.

Still, you'd think, if he noticed the scrap was too small for Spike, he'd realize it was too big for Buffy. Faith had a enticingly round little bum on her, requiring more silk than Buffy's size 0.

But then, Angel's eyes would never stray that low.

Spike found himself feeling unexpectedly sorry for his grandsire, caught in the iron clamp of self-denial. Spike wasn't getting any either, but at least he knew his self-imposed celibacy would end. He'd fall in love again, and make love again, and know again the bright beauty of a woman. But Angel--

Wouldn't be in love with and make love to the same woman. What a fate.

So his voice was gentler than it ought to be. "Haven't seen her except for that patrol. And you knew about that. Had that tail on us, didn't you."

"That's for you. Not her."

"Yeah, mate, fine. Hire better surveillance the next time. He got a look at that Cherzig demon and screamed and ran away." He laughed. "I guess he hasn't recovered, or you'd've known I was borrowing your car."

"I don't want you patrolling with her anymore."

This got Spike's back up, even if he would just as soon patrol alone these days. "She's the Slayer. She's had years of me guarding her back, and if she thinks she needs me some nights, she probably right. I'd think you'd be grateful to me, keeping her safe for you."

"I can keep her safe."

"Yeah, right. Notice you out there every night, staking the vamps."

Angel was silent, unwilling to confess, probably, that Buffy hadn't asked for his company. Spike could have told him the truth, that years of fighting together had made them a team, trusting each other entirely in a battle. It had nothing to do with ... the rest of it. Just if Buffy needed a fighting partner, no one else would do as well as Spike. And vice versa. Just a fact. Not what Spike himself wanted these days, but he wasn't going to let the Slayer get killed because of personal issues.

"Angel, look. She's yours. Not mine. We're all agreed on that. So give it up, all right? I'm not trying to take her from you. I'm just trying to start a new life."

"Then why steal my car?"

Spike considered this. "Because... my new life includes tormenting you?"

"Why can't your new life exclude me entirely?"

It hurt. Absurdly. Intensely. But he'd never let Angel know that. "Because then I'd have to find some other stuffed shirt to poke. And no one else would be as pokable as you, Peaches." He paused, waited for a protest, got silence. So he added, "Now what floor did you say your office was?"

"Why?"

"Just checking. Thought maybe I'd come in one night and rearrange your pencil tray."

"Maybe I'll put one of those pencils into your thieving little heart. Get some dust on my shoes."

Thieving. That was good. That made Spike mad, and that was good. "Try it, Peaches, and you'll lose your Shanshu forever. You forget I'm blessed. Under divine protection. You can't touch me."

He didn't know if it was true. But Angel would suspect the worst, that his inconstant friends the powers-that-be had shafted him again.

"Stay away from me." Angel slammed the phone down. The noise echoed pleasantly in Spike's brain. It was good to have an effect, even if it had to be a negative one.

He pulled the pillow over his head and tried to go back to sleep. But he kept hearing voices– old voices and angry voices and forgotten voices.  Familiar voices. Angel– just his voice — did that, roped Spike back into the past. To memory. Trapped him. Connected him.

I should leave him be, Spike thought.

_But then I'll be no one anymore._

He sat up and grabbed the phone and after a few go-rounds with the operator, tracked down Faith's number.

She answered, all sleepy and sexy, and he remembered those red silk knickers on the gearshift, and her nipples hard under her wet blouse, and her sweet kiss, and her wicked laugh.

"Let's get together tonight," he said, and he meant for sex this time.  That was what he needed. A woman's body. A slayer's heat.  Now. Sharp and clear and now. No more misty memories.  Now.

"Okay," she said, and then something clicked, and she added, fast and hard, "This time, I drive. You all right with that?"

"Yeah," he said.  "I'm all right with that."  


**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on LiveJournal in June 2006.


End file.
